


Runaway

by Turtlebaby



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtlebaby/pseuds/Turtlebaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new life means a lonely life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway

Less than 72 hours after he purposely ingested a poison that could have killed him, and did for all intent and purpose, Neal Caffrey was on a plane. His hands still shook and his vision still blurred around the edges and he had never been more alone in his life. No matter where he’d gone in the past, he’d always had a plan, a back-up, someone to rely on in some form. 

 

Neal Caffrey was dead. Everyone he knew needed to believe that. Everyone. 

 

He could still feel Peter’s hand where it brushed his hair back as he lay on cold metal. He could still feel the burn of the tear Mozzie would deny that fell to his too cold skin. They told him he wouldn’t remember a lot of what happened during, but he did. The sound of the heavy black bag zipping shut, the natural reaction to squint (a reaction that didn’t come) when the bag was opened and sharp fluorescence flooded his closed lids.

 

He dropped his head back onto the seat and let the sleep that had been nagging him finally win. It was a long flight, afterall. And Nicholas Klein needed his rest. He had a new life to create.

 

Madrid was nice, as it always was. Paris too. Vienna and Prague and Warsaw but nothing asked him to stay. He wasted time because he had time to waste. He looked without touching and taught when he could. He captured buildings and strangers in oil and charcoal and pen. Friends were a novelty is wasn’t allowed because at best they were a distraction. He didn’t know if he could walk away again, leave people behind again, start over again - so he just stopped trying to start at all. He weaved his way through a week then a month and one day as he was approaching a year he looked in the mirror and realized: Nick was still Neal and he still missed his life.

 

He was angry and careful as he sent feelers to the states, he probed his was into knowledge of the Panthers and their sentences and eventually of his namesake. When he found out Mozzie was still playing chess at the same table he hesitated only a day or two before he got a message out. And then he waited. 

 

And waited.

 

The year passed and he held his ground and took root in his apartment. He said good morning to to same people every day and realized abruptly that he wasn’t feigning the interest in their lives anymore. And with that, he fought the urge to disappear again. He knew what he was doing, staying still and asking to be found. As hard as it was, as scared as he was. He was tired of having no one.

 

So the man with a hundred faces and 5 passports in his sock drawer, became someone people were allowed to know. He bought flowers, three exactly, every Sunday from the vendor down the street. He had dinner every friday at the small restaurant three blocks away. He walked the same blocks each night and waved to the same neighbors at each turn. 

And he ate breakfast at the same place, three days a week. A small corner table flanked by high walls. Orange juice and eggs or coffee and pancakes - it didn’t matter, even of the busiest of mornings, his table was open and he was ushered to it with a warm smile. 

 

It was one of those days, with sunlight warming the top of his head and an espresso cooling at his elbow - not an empty seat on the patio, when a shadow crossed the newspaper he was reading and he flicked his eyes up, smile already in place. “Hello..” The words died on his lips and the newspaper fluttered to the ground.

 

“Mind if we sit with you?” Her voice came from beside him and his eyes tore away from the man to find her face. She smiled and reached for the chair beside him.

 

“Awfully crowded for 9am.” The man spoke, the familiar grousing ripping Neal’s attention back to him. He pulled back the other chair and sat. “Peter Burke. And this is my wife, Elizabeth.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you…?”

 

Neal’s heart was absolutely hammering in his chest. “Nick. Klein. Hello.” He stammered his name, any chance of a cool reunion slipping away as easily as Peter’s hand slipped into his. 

 

“Beautiful city.” El settled into her chair and stole a sip of his coffee. 

 

His eyes flooded at the intimacy of it and he swallowed hard as the cup clinked as it came to rest on the saucer. “How…?” Eyes back to Peter again as he shifted in his seat.

 

“I think, Nick, this makes us 5-0. I win, game over.” He moved forward and for one fleeting second Neal was absolutely sure he wasn’t going to stop, this time. And then he heard the little hitch in El’s breath and realized he wasn’t. Peter surged forward the last foot and caught his lips even as his hand found his jaw. It was fast and dry and chaste even but he barely caught his air before it was El’s lips on his, soft and wet and warm.

 

“I’m sorry it took us so long.” She held his face as she spoke. “We needed a plan.”

 

“And now we have one.” There was a glint in Peter’s eyes that spoke of home and stability.

 

And suddenly the man who had no one, had the world. He had these two and he had their promise. There was a lot of apologizing to do and a lot of hurt to mend, but they would get there. They’d be ok again.


End file.
